A Series of Extra Scenes: Scandal
by LittlePippin76
Summary: Scenes that I can imagine happening in between various other scenes. Hopefully some will be funny, some might be a bit sad. I don't know yet. Will be spoilers for season 2.
1. Hit Counts

**So I thought this might be fun. The episodes we've seen are all brilliant, and they contain many brilliant scenes. But my stupidly overactive imagination keeps thinking of fun little bits of script that might have happened in-between the bits that we get to see on the screen. So I've written a couple. I'm not saying I'd **_**like**_** to have seen these in there; I think what was scripted, shot and edited in there was just about perfect. It's just that I had fun imagining them, so I'm sharing them here, should anyone be interested.**

**(There will be more, probably across all six films at some point, assuming that writer's block doesn't smack me around the head again.)**

**This one fits in just at the beginning of the Speckled Blonde case, after the scene in the morgue.**

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><p><span>Hit counts<span>

John looked up to see the tails of Sherlock's coat disappearing through the doors. He glanced at Lestrade.

"I guess we're done here then," he said.

Lestrade shrugged.

"I'll ask Molly to put her away." He glanced up. "John, just before you dash out after him…"

"Mm, what?"

"Just… some of your cases do come from me, you know."

John gaped.

"Greg, you are not… Please, please tell me you are not jealous of my website!"

"No, no! Of course not.

"Greg, we're very grateful for every case you send our way. We really are. The thing is, and this is a really important thing sometimes, _you don't bloody pay us._ So forgive me for finding my _blog_ and its popularity fairly important."

"Yeah, course"

"I'd name check you more often in it, but given your a senior serving police officer, it doesn't seem like a good idea."

"That's true. Drinks later?"

"When we've finished. Now excuse me, I have to chase after the big child, stop him from sulking, remind him to at least inform you about what he's thinking and doing, and I'd like to do all of this before he gets in a cab, because he never bloody pays me back for fare!"

John hurried out of the morgue, up the stairs, out the main door, and just spotted Sherlock as he was getting into a taxi. He ran down the stairs, and literally jumped in after him. Sherlock huffed and moved up so he could sit down.

"OK?" he asked Sherlock.

"Of course. Why would I not be?"

"No reason. I'm just asking."

"I'm fine." They sat in silence for a while. "If people want to read the semi-literate ramblings of a fool, rather than a concise and informative essay on tobacco ash, then it's absolutely no concern of mine."

"No. I didn't think it would be. That's exactly what I thought."

"Fine."

"Good. So the girl…" John started.

"How many hits did your last page get?" Sherlock snapped. "I'm just asking. It's conversation; I'm not actually interested."

"Good. I'm glad." John watched Sherlock gaze out of the window for a moment and sighed.

"How many?" Sherlock asked again.

"About eight hundred last time I checked."

"Good. Marvellous. Well done you."

"Mm." He glanced at Sherlock. "Don't worry. I'm sure tobacco will get that amount at some point." Sherlock scowled and he sighed. "Especially when I start prescribing it to my insomniac patients," he muttered.

Sherlock turned to him with a snarl and John tried very, very hard not to grin childishly. He was unsuccessful.

Sherlock looked away again, quickly.

John was almost sure he could see a smile reflected in the window.

"So how many has tobacco ash had?" he asked. "I'm not interested; it's just conversation."

Sherlock huffed and muttered something.

"Sorry?" John said.

"None!" Sherlock shouted. "Not a single one! Not even my _alleged_ best friend could even be bothered to click on the link to at least make it look like he'd read it!"

John sniggered. "Well maybe your alleged best friend was concerned that you'd give him some kind of exam on tobacco ash to prove that he'd absorbed it all."

"It'd be for your own good."

"You see! This is why nobody reads your blog!"

"Website."

"Whatever."

"Without me, you wouldn't have anything to write about. I think you should remember that."

"Yes, that's true." John nodded quietly. "Though arguably, without me, you wouldn't have anything to earn you money. We're here. Now stop being a stupid jealousy box, and pay the cab."


	2. Hats

**Following the exit from the theatre while wearing those hats.**

Hats

John settled beside Sherlock in the cab. He turned to look at the crowd of journalists and photographers and couldn't help but feel mildly impressed. Lestrade was clearly giving a few details to them, but attention was waning, and several were already walking away.

He turned to Sherlock to find that he was being watched and scowled at.

"Well I hope you're satisfied now!" Sherlock snapped.

"A bit. Yeah."

Sherlock frowned. "John, this…" he waved his hand towards the group. "_This_ is far from ideal!"

"And yet you're happy when people turn up at the door with a nice case for you."

"It's _not_ ideal."

"Look, it's a small blog that people have taken an interest in. It's not even that well read in comparison to some! It's not like I'm getting thousands of hits a day."

"Yet."

"Oh settle down."

Sherlock huffed and sighed and pulled the hat from his head.

"What the hell is this anyway? This is the most ridiculous hat I've ever seen!"

"It's a deerstalker."

"It's tied up with a bow!"

"Just let it go! You don't ever have to wear it again!"

"How come you got the normal, decent hat?"

"You _gave_ it to me! Now forget about the hats!"

They sat in silence for a while.

"Why are you still wearing yours," Sherlock asked, after a while.

"I think it looks good on me."

"You look like an old fashioned gardener."

"I'm comfortable with that."

There was more silence, accompanied by sighs and pouting.

"You could tell me my hat looks fine," Sherlock finally said.

"Your hat looked particularly ridiculous. All hats look ridiculous on you. Oh don't look like that, it's not your fault, it's because you have a giant head and ridiculous hair."

Sherlock glared for a while. After a minute, his hand flicked out and he grabbed the hat from John's head.

"Ow!" John said. "Hey!"

"I'm burning both hats when we get home, and nothing you can say will prevent me from doing so."


	3. Rohypnol

**I wrote the bulk of this one the night after Scandal aired. I didn't think I'd publish it at the time, simply because it felt too much like Sick Fic. Alas, I haven't written anything else for a while, so I thought I'd brush it up and let you have it.**

**Thanks so much for the reviews and comments so far! I'm glad you're enjoying these!**

**Pip xxx**

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><p><span>Roypnol<span>

"John!" Sherlock yelled for the second time that evening.

John cursed and waited, but it was followed by another crash, so he thought he'd better go and check.

"Am I going to get any rest at all tonight?" he grumbled, opening Sherlock's door. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock wasn't there, and John very briefly worried, until he heard a quiet retch and a cough from the bathroom. He frowned and went in, and found Sherlock resting his head on his arms on the side of the bath, in which there was a small puddle of something dubious. Sherlock seemed to be asleep.

"Sherlock?" John said, giving him a gentle prod. "You OK there?"

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"What?"

"Are you OK?"

"Yes. Fine. Where am I? Bathroom? How did I get here?"

"Oh not this again."

"What?"

Sherlock looked so thoroughly confused that John nearly laughed.

"I think you mostly crawled,' he said, feeling a pang of sympathy through his amusement. "Are you still feeling sick? No, don't go to sleep, are you feeling sick?"

"What?" Sherlock opened his eyes, turned and vomited into the bath.

"Right," John said.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"I don't feel quite well."

"No, I can see that. Wait here and I'll get you some water. Don't try to go anywhere."

"I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. You're fushing. Fussing. Too much."

"Yes, you're fine. Unable to distinguish between a toilet and a bath-tub, but other than that, fine."

"What?" Sherlock turned and retched into the bath again.

"Nothing. I'll get you some water."

John left and filled a glass. He went back into the bathroom and found Sherlock sitting calmly on the floor.

"I was thinking something," Sherlock said.

"Well that's a good sign." John handed him the water.

"There was a thought."

"Marvellous. What as it?"

"I don't know." Sherlock sat back and drank some water. "I think I was thinking about that woman."

"Irene Adler? That's a coincidence, I was thinking about her too. Though I doubt what I was thinking, was similar to what you were thinking."

"She was in my bedroom."

"Oh, maybe then." He turned the shower on and quickly rinsed the bathtub. Sherlock watched him.

"She was…" Sherlock frowned, "gasping."

"I really don't need details, Sherlock." He turned the water off again, and looked at the sorry heap of detective that was sitting like a ragdoll on the floor. He looked tired, but he didn't look as though he'd suddenly lose consciousness again.

"I'm going to get you some pyjamas. You should get changed and sleep it off now."

"Mm."

"Are you still queasy?"

"A bit."

"I'll get you a bowl too."

John disappeared back into Sherlock's room and gathered pyjamas. He was not surprised to hear a grunt and a quiet groan, and to see Sherlock appear in the doorway.

"That 'don't move anywhere' directive's going well then?" he said.

"What?"

"Don't try to move too far. You'll do yourself a mischief."

Sherlock frowned and swayed, and John quickly walked over to him. He steered Sherlock slightly until he was sitting on his bed.

"I'm very dizzy," Sherlock said.

"Mm. You were shot full of rohypnol. It's not fun. Just stay calm and stay still and go to sleep. Do you need help getting changed?"

"No. I'm fine." He unbuttoned three of his shirt buttons, but then his attention wandered. "Rohypnol?"

"Mm. I'm fairly sure." He quickly undid the rest of Sherlock's shirt buttons and pulled it gently from him. Sherlock managed to find his way into his t-shirt all by himself. "Well done," John said. "I've got the syringe in my pocket so we can be sure in the morning. In the meantime, stay still, stay calm, and go to sleep."

"I don't want to go to sleep."

"Imagine my surprise. Do as you're told, Sherlock. I think I'm going to leave those trousers on you."

"Fine." Sherlock flopped back onto his bed suddenly and rolled himself into his sheet. "I'm a bit tired now," he muttered.

"Good. Are you OK now?"

"Mm. I think so."

"Good. No more scary dreams about the nasty woman then."

"No," Sherlock said softly.

oOo

The first thing Sherlock noticed as he woke up the next morning was a crashing, throbbing headache. The second thing he registered was an overwhelming feeling of humiliation. He covered his face with his hands. He immediately moved them to check that there was nobody in his room, watching him, and then he covered his face again.

He allowed himself three minutes of wallowing in it all, and then he got up.

He noticed that his bathroom smelled strongly of cleaning products. He frowned. Mrs Hudson wouldn't have come in to clean before he'd woken up. All the surfaces were mostly clean, but the bathtub showed tell-tale streaks where the product hadn't been rinsed thoroughly enough.

He narrowed his eyes, and suddenly a room in his mind-palace opened, and the events of the previous night fame flooding out and tumbled down the wide, sweeping staircase towards the opulent entrance hall.

He winced, sat on the side of the bath and covered his face again.

He could hear John talking with Mrs Hudson. They were talking quietly, clearly in respect for someone they believed to be suffering.

He summoned his courage, went to put on his pyjama trousers and his third-best dressing gown, and he grabbed his phone. He walked calmly through to the front room. John was still in his pyjamas, and even without more subtle clues, the pillows and duvet made it clear that he had slept downstairs all night. Sherlock sighed.

The conversation stopped, and two pairs of eyes watched him, as he walked quite proficiently across the room, and sat down at the table.

He ignored them.

They were not as courteous. Mrs Hudson bustled over and rubbed his back for a moment. He'd have found it quite soothing if it hadn't been so humiliating.

"Oh, Sherlock! John's told me all about it!" She said.

"Good. Marvellous. Be quiet."

He rooted through the pile of newspapers for something not too highbrow, but not hideously uncultured. He sighed on finding that John had stolen the only publication that was worthy of his attention at this hour in the morning.

"You poor boy!" Mrs Hudson twittered. "What a horrible thing to happen."

"Quieter."

"And I'll make you something easy for breakfast. John said you were sick in the night."

"John should learn to hold his tongue."

"What do you think you could manage to eat now?"

"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson. Just…" he sighed. "Go away."

"I'll make you a nice soft-boiled egg."

"I'd like one too, Mrs Hudson!" John called from the sofa.

Sherlock winced at the sound and hoped that John would be perceptive enough to find him some painkillers. He settled for a second choice newspaper and glared at it. A couple of white pills and a glass of water appeared before him, and then John went to sit back down again.

"You really do fuss an unreasonable amount," Sherlock muttered. He swallowed the pills.

"You were injected with rohypnol. I reserve the right to be concerned. Are you feeling better now?"

"I'm fine. I just want to get on with the day."

"Well you'll be getting on with the day fairly soon. Mycroft texted me. He's on his way over."

Sherlock cursed and stamped over to snatch the newspaper from John. He glared again and went to sit back down.

"Thank you," he said, very quietly.

"Sorry?"

"Thank you for cleaning my bath. I appreciate it. Now shut up."

John grinned.


	4. Arsenal

**This one doesn't have a specific place, but could take place any point after they visit Irene Adler's house. **

**Prompted by the lovely Jason Layton and his eagle eyes.**

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><p><span>Arsenal<span>

Sherlock heaved open the draw underneath John's bed, and he frowned.

"John? John!"

John appeared from the shower, rubbing his hair dry.

"What? What is… What are you doing in my room?"

Sherlock glanced at him.

"I needed to get your gun."

"No you didn't. You _wanted_ to get my gun. You can't have it. And why were you yelling?"

Sherlock stood up to his fullest height. John was not cowed.

"I _do_ need your gun, actually, but I was confused when I looked in your gun drawer…"

"My linen drawer."

"Well it might have been a linen drawer at some point, but now it's quite clearly a gun drawer!"

They both looked in the drawer. The sheets and spare towels had been moved aside to reveal four guns.

"It's a whole arsenal, John!"

"Don't exaggerate." John had the grace to blush slightly.

"Where did you get them all from?"

"Well that's the Browning…"

"We've met," Sherlock said, scathingly.

"Right, well that one I happened to pick up from the CIA agent at Irene's house."

"Wait! I picked up a gun at the house too! I'd entirely forgotten!"

"Yes. Well that's that one." John pointed.

Sherlock glared.

"I lifted it from you in the Lestrade's car," John said. "You weren't really in a fit state to be handling a weapon."

"So that one's mine then." Sherlock reached for it. He frowned. "You've disabled this!"

"No, I have temporarily made it safe."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not stupid. They're all temporarily disabled."

Sherlock looked mournfully at the gun in his hand. He frowned again.

"Where did you get the fourth?"

"Oh, that baker. The one with the gun. Remember? The Bread-Headed League?"

"Do you just follow me around to steal guns?"

"No! And if Lestrade had needed it for evidence I'd have left it. But I didn't think he did, so I appropriated it. A bit."

Sherlock looked at him for a long time.

"You know, if anyone else had done this," Sherlock said, pointing at him with the harmless gun, "you'd have labelled them a gun nut. You're a gun nut."

"No," John said, shaking his head. "_You_ are a gun nut. _I_ am a professional marksman. There's a difference."

"You _were_ a pro..." Sherlock caught the look in John's eye, and stopped.

"Good," John said. "Now why did you want a gun?"

"I _need_ a gun, because there's a rat in 221C and Mrs Hudson asked me to deal with it."

John frowned.

"Don't you want to catch it humanely and experiment on it?"

"No, I'd buy from a professional breeder for that. It's better to know their history if you want accurate results. I thought it might make good target practice."

"Huh." John looked at Sherlock, then he looked at the door, and then he looked at the drawer full of fairly impressive weaponry. His eyes flashed. "OK, you disappear while I make the two CIA guns ready and get dressed, and then meet me downstairs in ten minutes. I'll bet you a curry that I can kill it before you can.

Sherlock grinned.

"Deal," he said.


	5. The Body

**This one fits shortly after Mycroft leaves (following Rohypnol).**

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><p><span>The Body<span>

Sherlock put his violin back down.

"So, your head's feeling better then?" John said.

"No. I need complete quiet. Don't talk."

John smiled. He took his newspaper back and settled down on the sofa. Sherlock sat on his armchair and sulked at the fireplace.

"One thing does confuse me a little bit," John said.

Sherlock grunted.

"You couldn't do that thing you do with Irene Adler," John said.

Sherlock frowned.

"That thing you do where you work out everything you can about a person," John went on. "I knew you were confused, because you looked confused. It's a look I've not seen many times, so it jarred a bit. Plus, then you did that thing you do with me, and I know what that looks like, because I've seen it many, many times."

"Yes. Good. Shut up."

"By the way, I wasn't out with Mike. You confused yourself by forgetting that I have more than one friend."

Sherlock glowered.

"You only have one drinking friend. I don't drink."

John smiled. "I have more than one drinking friend, though we're escaping from the point a bit. You couldn't work out anything about Irene Adler."

"The woman had no clothes on. It makes my job a bit more difficult."

John smiled. He walked over to the armchairs and sat down with Sherlock.

"You honestly couldn't get anything? Other than her measurements, I mean?"

Sherlock glared.

"You see it strikes me as odd," John said, "because you're obviously better at this than I am, but I could tell she was in her thirties, hadn't ever been pregnant, certainly hasn't ever breastfed, and still has her appendix intact. Even from a non-medical perspective, I could see that she was perfectly comfortable in her own skin, and she spends a lot of time taking care of that skin, though she does like to indulge in foreign holidays and doesn't use quite enough sun-block when she's sunbathing. She has an excellent skincare regime other than that. Someone washes her, regularly, possibly on a daily basis. She has expensive taste in make-up and knows how to highlight her assets even when she's not wearing any clothes, which is a cleverer skill than you'd think. Oh, and despite that profession, she keeps her clients at a great distance. She doesn't have regular penetrative sex."

"Is there any other…" Sherlock said, and then quickly turned the question into a cough and blushed.

John let it pass.

"So how long did it take you to work all of that out?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, not long. I was awake quite a lot of the night, but it gave me something to think about."

"And you've been waiting patiently to show off your superior knowledge of naked woman?"

"Yeah. It's a bit interesting being you, isn't it?"

"Enjoy it?"

"I'll admit to a certain pleasure in it, yes."

"I'll not point out that you could have worked most of that out from her choice of career then," Sherlock snapped. "I'm going back to bed."

He stomped into his room and slammed the door after him.


	6. Make up

**This one comes after the scene with Sherlock, Mycroft and Irene in Mycroft's house.**

**Can I also just say how lovely and caring people have been to me in recent months, and thank you all for that. It's entirely possible that I'm still not going to be well enough to write much, but I think it's about time I gave it a go, and we'll see. **

**A special shout-out to Katkin who very patiently and very calmly interested me in writing again.**

Make up

John walked into the living room and snapped the light on. The sudden appearance of Sherlock, sitting quietly in his armchair made him jump out of his skin.

'Jesus!' He held a hand to his chest and forced himself to calm his breathing. 'You're up late.'

The shock was gone in a moment. Sherlock didn't move at all.

'Are you OK?' John asked.

There was no answer. John glanced around.

'Where's Irene?'

There was no answer except for an almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere.

'Ah. I take it it didn't go well then?'

Sherlock took a long slow breath. 'It did not go well.'

'Ah.' John continued to look at Sherlock, who continued not to move. 'Are you OK?'

'Fine.'

'Right.' There was nothing further forthcoming. The last few pints and the heady smell of the pub were weighing heavily on John, and he wasn't entirely sure if he was in a fit state for a conversation with Sherlock on any subject, least of all this one. 'I'm going to shower,' he announced, and he went.

He ran the water too hot, and let it ease his neck and shoulders and let his mind clear a little. He dried himself roughly, put on his dressing gown, and he went into the kitchen. He ignored the fairly pushy part of his brain which was suggesting he really wanted a nice big Scotch, and filled a glass with water instead. He went back through to the living room where he sat down in his armchair. Sherlock didn't look at him directly, but it would be physically impossible for even the most obtuse person not to notice him.

'How are you?' he asked.

'Fine.'

'Right.'

He decided to give it just five minutes, just for some of the dampness to leave his hair, and then he'd go to bed. He yawned widely.

Four minutes and fifty seconds later, just as John was nodding off, Sherlock spoke.

'Of course I should have realised from the wet hair and the lack of make-up.'

'Sorry, what?'

'She arrived when she knew we'd be out, showered, took off all traces of make-up, dressed herself in simple, muted clothing and got into my bed.'

'Yes, I agree, she did all of that. So what?'

'You noticed it yourself.'

'I noticed what?'

'She knows how to present herself for any given situation. She was naked when we first met purely to elicit a reaction from me. When that didn't work…'

'It bloody did work!'

'When that _didn't_ work, she needed to change her method of attack. Naked and heels and green eye-shadow was ineffective,' Sherlock ignored John's pointed throat clearing, 'so she moved onto vulnerable. Everything was calculated, and Mycroft was right, I _should_ have noticed.'

'It's not your fault.'

'Of course it is. Who else's fault would it be?'

'Look, Sherlock,' John sat forward to talk softly. 'It's not a massive error of judgement to want someone sometimes. To want that companionship. Irene was attractive, and like you say, she knew how to present herself for effect, and she was very, very clever. Plus, of course, she flirted with you hopelessly, and it's hard to resist against an onslaught like that, even when it's not completely meant.' Sherlock shifted in his chair slightly. John smiled sympathetically. 'It's not awful that you felt an attraction.'

'I didn't feel an attraction!'

John signed and sat back. He rubbed his face, and tiredly pulled himself from the chair.

'Well, I'm going to bed. Good night.' He plodded towards the doorway.

'John?'

'Mm?' He turned.

Sherlock was looking at him with that inscrutable look on his face.

'Thank you.'

'For what?'

But if Sherlock even knew, it was clear he couldn't say.

'Well, you're welcome.' He turned to the doorway, but stopped again and turned back. 'Just, don't put too much stock in what Mycroft says, will you? It's pretty damned clear that the man's an imbecile. British government or not.'

There was still no answer, but there was a smile, small and surprised, behind Sherlock's eyes now. John nodded at him, satisfied, and went comfortably off to his bed.


End file.
